It has long been known that New Zealand has the worst youth suicide rate of all 41 OECD nations - here in Godzone our young people are struggling. The pandemic has surely made things worse - isolation, disruption to lives, friendships, sports, and the added pressure of trying to learn online has heaped extra weight on our kids. So many young people are battling with hopelessness, overwhelm, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, depression and major anxiety.
Having a child who is struggling with their mental health, watching your precious kid in intense emotional and mental pain is surely one of the worst things a parent can go through. Knowing how to respond, how to help and support them through it can be a confusing and lonely struggle. (Sadly, there is still so much stigma around mental illness, and it can be hard to reach out for help).
I am writing this from the trenches, for fellow parents of young people who are struggling. For the past four years, this has been my battle too. And now finally, I can see clear water ahead, and feel like I can share what I've learned.
Last week I wrote a post on a subject I haven't broached in a while as I found myself pursued by my old Nemesis, the Black Dog. After a nice long spell free from it's hounding, it was something of a shock to feel those old feelings again. But after years of dealing with that mutt's harassment, I was in a much better place than I once was to get it back under control again.
I'm talking about Depression, if you haven't figured it out. It dogged me for years (ha, see what I did there?).
In recent times I've been symptom-free, partly helped by anti-depressants, which deal with the chemical side, and partly helped by regular visits to my awesome counselor, Jane - or as I prefer to think of her, my life coach. With this two-pronged plan I've been making steady progress at dealing with stuff, getting stronger, finding my voice - and the Black Dog was nowhere to be seen.
But I knew it was still lurking in the background somewhere, waiting for it's opportunity to pounce. It was tied up, sure, and under control, but I was under no illusions that I was done with that Mutt for good. It's a vulnerability I have, like a dodgy knee that plays up in cold weather. If I don't stay vigilant, if I let things get on top of me, if pressure starts to build and I'm not careful, then look out - the Black Dog will slip his chain and start roaming free again.
(It helps me to personify the Depression as a Black Dog, prowling. It may seem odd to you, but it works for me).
Over the many (many) years I've spent dealing with the black dog, I've learnt a few things. I'm not the quivering mess I once was, in the face of the Mutt. I know I can beat it and I'm not afraid of it's bite anymore because I know how to act quickly and get it under control before things get out of hand. At the first sign of it's loathsome growl, I am on alert and the call goes out:
We have a situation: The Mutt is free, he's off his chain. Beware! Alert all systems. Move to DEFCON 4.
It's been a long long time since I've felt this way. Today, for whatever reason, I have hit the wall and I don't really know why. For months and months - maybe more than a year - the Black Dog has been safely tied up. He hasn't been barking or snapping at my heels or raising his ugly black head.
But today, all of a sudden, there he is. Ugh. I hate that mutt.
What is this feeling of overwhelm? Where has this desire to climb back into my bed and pull the covers up over my head come from?
It's been building all weekend. I've been snappy, snarly and a right grumpy git, to be honest.
But I've been holding it together. Until just now when I went to plug in my camera to upload some photos from the weekend and SH*T, some bugger has taken my camera cord and stuck it who-knows-where.
In that instant all of the little things that have been building up like a weight of snow on my emotional roof suddenly become too much. In the blink of an eye, here comes the whole lot of it crashing through and landing on me like a cold wet blanket.
I want to write this post today, partly to make sense of stuff for myself (because this is how I process things) and partly to let you all in on the way things are.
"Taking the long way round" is a phrase my counsellor used to describe my processing, weeks before I did the cognitive testing which revealed I am dyslexic.
She was helping me come to terms with some of my struggles and gave me a "Truth" phrase to write on a card: "I might take the long way round, but I get there in the end".
A little sob rose up inside me as she said it. It resonated deeply, this knowledge that all my life I've been taking the long way round but somehow "getting there" eventually.
Weeks later when the surprising diagnosis came back, it all made perfect sense.
This feeling of constantly treading water, of working hard beneath the surface to do things that "should be easy".
Wanting a medal at the end of each day, just for getting through it.
Constantly feeling anxious and uncertain.
My baffling forgetfulness and daily struggle to complete tasks and get where I need to be.
My losing battle with organisation and timeliness.
The way words freeze in my head and my mouth zips shut and I don't know how to get the words out to start a conversation (often mistaken for shyness).
How I walk around with unspoken sentences sealed up inside me, how sometimes it's just too hard to find a way to talk about things (and how this drives my husband batty).
It was a relief to know that the feeling I've always had of being different, and somehow outside of things, was in fact real.
But then the confusion set set in. Dyslexia, really?
But I'm a writer! I'm an avid reader! I am Mrs Readalot for gosh sakes! I was reading before I even went to school. Writing is how I express myself when words fail. So how does that stack up with dyslexia?
Aren't dyslexics all meant to struggle with spelling, reading and writing? I'm a great speller!
All these questions I threw at my lovely counsellor, Jane (who just happens to be doing her Masters on how Dyslexia affects marriages and families - amazing huh?).
Jane pulled out my test and talked me through it.
I have a giftedness in the area of vocabulary and comprehension, she explained. This has masked the dyslexia and enabled me to learn ways of compensating. I have learned how to take the long way round so successfully that my dyslexia was not even hinted at for 43 years.
I remember my dad teaching me to read. He used a game called Teachatot which has hundreds of jigsaw letters. I remember rolling on the floor giggling at the nonsense rhyming words my dad would make up.
He was teaching me to read phonically, breaking down the rules and word patterns and setting me up for life, without even realising it.
Apparently this is now the way "they" teach dyslexics to read. My dear old Dad had no idea that he was performing a miracle by playing Teachatot with me.
But all the praise doesn't just go to Dad.
Mum played a big part too.
Hours and hours I spent sitting on her lap while she read Little Golden Books to me - to the point that when I was three years old I had all the neighbour kids thinking I could read, because I knew the books off by heart. Word perfect.
My mum planted the seed of a love for books and reading.
My Dad watered that seed and nourished it.
Before I turned five I was reading. Before I was six I has read Enid Blyton's Folk of the Faraway Tree through in one night.
Giftedness plus parental input set me up to succeed in school. I was in the top classes in High School, getting good marks in English and Art, doing OK in the other subjects.
Funny though. I had no idea my parents thought I was a bit lazy and unmotivated.
They knew I was bright but thought I could do better. Wondered why I wouldn't apply myself.
Little did they know how hard I must have been working beneath the surface. It looked like laziness but it wasn't.
[Standard One at Pt Chev Primary - I went to 10 different schools]
What I have - giftedness plus dyslexia - is called "Twice Exceptional" (2e) or "Stealth Dyslexia".
"Unfortunately a lack of parents’ and teachers’ knowledge and understanding can mean that neither the child’s giftedness nor special need is identified, or one aspect of the child is identified while the other is not. If it is only the giftedness which is recognised the child may be labelled lazy, oppositional or unmotivated. In the longer term a misunderstood twice exceptional child may be at risk of being placed in a unit for emotionally and behaviourally disturbed children, or of dropping out of school completely." - PEGY.org
This was me. I was identified as "gifted" (or at least considered "bright") but also seen as lazy.
I left school after 5th form to go to Canada for a year, but came home after three months and returned to school. I had to work my butt off to catch up - the hardest I had ever worked (which my Dad thought was the saving of me).
At the end of that year I'd had enough. I quit school and went and did an art course at the local Polytech.
I never went to University or gained any formal qualifications. Everything I've done and achieved has been learnt on the hop. I've kept on taking the long way round.
Now I am learning why I ended up with Depression.
Dyslexics are more prone to "emotional problems".
Self esteem is effected, anxiety is constant and there is always a feeling of never quite fitting in. (there's a great article here which explains it)
Square peg in round hole.
Plus it's exhausting. Constant tiredness from always having to take the long way round... and headaches. Lots and lots of headaches.
[6th Form - newly returned from Canada and working extra extra hard to catch up]
This is how I ended up with depression and why I couldn't kick it.
But now I know! I understand what lies at the root of my struggles.
And now for the first time I reckon I've got a really good chance of finally beating the depression.
With my new found understanding, I can start to live out of my strengths instead of constantly beating myself up over my "failings". I can start to feel better about myself, and be proud of what I have achieved... especially since I had to take the long way round!
Dyslexia has it's strengths (I see the big picture, I can find answers others might not, I am creative, I think outside the box) but it comes with its struggles too.
Every day, as I move through the world, cleaning my house, caring for my family, I take the long way round. It's tiring, I feel like I need a medal... but I get there in the end.
I will ALWAYS get there in the end.
.....................
Any other dyslexics out there? Any other 2e's? I'd love to hear from you... P.S. Can you spot me in all the school photos. Bonus points for getting them right!
Today I'm starting a new project, both in my life and here on my blog.
A project to focus on goodness and all the things I am grateful for.
This is my homework, from Jane (my counsellor).
A project to replace old stories in my head with new ones.
A project to tell my soul that life is good - hard, yes - but Good. And WORTH LIVING.
I don't need to go into the details of why I need this right now, more than ever.
Suffice it to say that some of those bad-old thinking patterns have been exposed; those deeply held core beliefs in the very depths of my soul - the ones that make me constantly doubt myself and feel "less-than" and "not-enough". These are the stories I tell myself. The stories I have believed forever. These stories have to go.
And part of their destruction process? Gratitude.
Writing down, every day, the things I have to be grateful for.
So I have turned a little notebook into my Grateful Journal.
I began last night, and was surprised to find the gratitude flowing freely. Ten things, just like that (and this morning another nine... so many blessings when you stop and look).
I'm also going to dedicate the next two weeks to The Grateful Project, here on my blog.
It's another way of keeping myself focussed. Keeping myself on track. Keeping doing it.
You might want to join me, grab a notebook yourself and start a Grateful Journal of your own. Or blog about it, whatever.
I'm doing this for me, but join in if you need it too.
(Cos we all need this, at times, don't we? To remind ourselves of our blessings?)
So here I go. From the top of my head on a crispy Wednesday morning...
DAY ONE
Grateful for seeing my boys hugging in the kitchen this morning. And hearing Dash say to Scrag: "I Love ya! Meet me at morning tea and lunch time, OK?" Really. I needed that. Warmed my heart.
Grateful (so grateful) for my warm bed and extra blankets to keep out the cold (on the coldest night of the year).
Grateful I remembered Fingerknitting, last night, and taught it to Miss Fab in 30 seconds flat. (She was getting upset cos I couldn't teach her crocheting or knitting, saying, but I just want to spend time with you). We made each other friendship bracelets. She loved it (and then went to bed and made about 6 more metres of the stuff which is wound around her neck this morning.) Grateful for a special moment.
Grateful for the way we've all started sitting around in the lounge, by the fire after dinner, doing homework altogether. It feels warm and cosy and not hard or a chore. Maybe we can stick at this?
Grateful that my hubby took the kids to school for me (again). So I can sit here in my dressing gown, writing and being Grateful.
Grateful for a clear sky and sunny day after a stormy freezing day of hail and sleet and thunder yesterday.
Grateful this means Miss Fab will get to play netball today (last week's game was cancelled). And I get to watch and cheer her on. And hubby is coming too.
Grateful I have a slow cooker, so I can put dinner on this morning and it will be ready and waiting for us when we get home this evening, after netball. So there's no stress or rushing to cook.
Grateful for new words, new stories about the way I Mother. Instead of "I'm not enough" I can see that: I am WARM. I am INTERESTED. I am AFFECTIONATE. I am a LOVING MOTHER. It's enough. And I am Grateful.
See? Nothing earthshattering. Just the regular stuff of life. And yet... I really am grateful. For all of it.
It's been a massive three weeks.
First there was Mr G's Fortieth, with the surprise appearance from his Mam (from England) to pull off.
Then there was the Bloggers Conference in Christchurch. Taking a workshop, being on the panel. Oh and helping with the redesign/relaunch of the Kiwi Bloggers website.
Finally, the party to end all parties, that Carnival monster.
I'm flippin done in, I tell ya.
Me and my PTSD are coping (just) but the house is a tip and the cleaner quit.
The endless mess and tripping over piles of party stuff and yet-to-be-unpacked bags? Not the best look for your ma-in-law.
But bless her, she hasn't said anything. Just got in and washed my windows, did my dishes, cycled through my piles of dirty laundry. I don't think I would have got through the last couple of weeks without her.
All this build-up of bigness takes its toll on my fragile ego.
This is me being totally honest here people; I am a people pleaser from way back.
So I do this massive party and I long for feedback. Secretly CRAVE it.
Do the comments flow in? No they do not.
It's school holidays, people are busy entertaining their kids, I tell myself. (Either that or they think your parties are over the top and way too much" a nagging Needlenose voice whispers.)
I try to ignore that little voice, that nagging insecure broken bit inside my sense of self.
I didn't go to all that work so I'd get loads of people commenting on my blog or oohing and ahhing over my photos on Facebook or repinning my pins on Pinterest. Honest.
I did it cos my youngest just turned five, the last kid off to school. End of an era and all that.
Plus he's pretty darn awesome and deserves to be celebrated, bigtime. ("Yeah but part of you still wants people to tell you you did good, that they had fun, that your party rocked," goes Needlenose.)
Sigh. Big deep heavy sigh.
Pardon me, but my insecurity is showing.
Yep, still plenty to work on in therapy!
In the meantime, I will try to keep my self-esteem anchored in something other than the words and praise of other people.
I know I did good.
The birthday boy had a blast (no complaints from him).
His pals seemed to have fun and we "sold out" of EVERYTHING.
I'm hanging on, but just barely.
Remember my post a few weeks back, about the Long and Winding Road?
Well, things have been rough, to say the least.
Unmedicated Me is not a nice person or a very pleasant mother. For my poor family, it's been like living with a volcano, or snuggling up to a porcupine.
The little things become insurmountable obstacles and the big things, well, let's just say I still haven't learnt my lesson about taking on too much (using up my limited energy on all the wrong things, of course).
It turns out that Unmedicated Me sucks.
It turns out that the good does not outweigh the bad.
We are not just dealing with "the odd panic attack" which can be ridden out for the sake of having the good emotions back. We are dealing with a cave-bear on a hair-trigger.
Not. Good.
So today I'm going to talk to my counsellor and then I'm going to fill my prescription for some happy pills.
Not the nasties I was on before, something gentler.
But it turns out, I need the drugs.
All you brave souls who live with this black dog, unmedicated, I guess I am just not as strong as you.
I'm also going to take a little break from blogging, check out of blogland for a spell, while I try to get my equilibrium back. For the next week, I'm hanging out the "Back in 5" sign.
Just one less thing to worry about, you know?
Because I love this space, I love writing and sharing and connecting... but right now I just don't have enough Go Juice to do everything I want need to do.
I'm having to trim back the extras, just to get through each day.
I'll be using my time when the kids are out to refresh, recharge... so that when they walk in the door it's their loving mother who greets them, not some angry cave bear who is likely to erupt if they leave a mess on the bench, or don't shut the pantry door.
I'm still open to doing blog design jobs (I can manage one per week) and my Etsy shoppe remains open - these endeavours are now helping me stay sane by funding a cleaner.
Don't worry, you won't have time to miss me, the way the days fly past so quickly. I'll be back before you even know I'm gone.
See you in a week or so.
xx
It’s like being
lost in the woods; a grim, dark, ancient tangled forest.
You don’t know
where you are or how you got there.
Everywhere you
look there are trees, more trees, gnarled and clawing. They reach and grab you,
ghoulish, lifelike.
Your heart pounds,
panic rises; you want to run, get out of there, find safety and open ground…
but every way you turn looks the same. Every time you find what you think is a
path, it turns out to be only one more dead end. You’re lost in the forest, and
can’t see a way out.
This is what it’s
been like for me, living with Depression and Anxiety for the last twelve years (ten,
since diagnosis.)
Around this time last
year I got to breaking point. When you’ve been lost in a forest for that long,
it’s kind of hard to keep believing you’re ever going to find your way out.
I had lost hope, almost
given up on myself. Started to believe I would never be free.
Realising we had
hit rock-bottom, my husband spent the
travel vouchers he’d won for a tropical holiday to try and help save our marriage instead.
Ray explained to
me how I wound up in the forest, and why I’d been wandering there, lost, for so
long.
Then he hooked us
up with a wonderful counsellor back here in New Zealand, Jane.
For the first
time, I saw a light through the trees.
That light gave me
something to aim for. It gave me hope.
I had a sense
that, although I’m still “in the woods” I am no longer lost and wandering
aimlessly.
I am on the path
that will take me out of this place.
With that light,
Hope has returned.
Hope that one day
I will be free of the forest.
But oh my
goodness, what a journey it is.
Just because I
have found the path and can see the light ahead of me, it doesn’t mean that the
branches of those evil old trees stop snagging in my hair and tugging at my
clothes.
It doesn’t mean
that when the sun goes down, I don't begin to fear that the light is gone forever,
that I have lost the path, and I am still wandering, lost.
When the night
comes, the forest is such a scary place. I jump at every sound.
But I am learning
to stay put. As Jane says, “lean into it”. Wait for morning.
And morning comes
every time. The sun always rises. Hope is not gone, it just gets hidden
sometimes.
I am still on the
path. I am not lost.
Recently the path
has taken me through a particularly tangled part of the woods.
The medication* I
had fought to go on, thinking it would help with my lack of energy and anxiety,
was proving to be a nasty drug. I did not want this drug in my body any more. I
wanted it gone.
Withdrawalhas been a process which has taken more than two months. It has been pretty hideous at times.
Just over two
weeks ago, I was able to stop taking it altogether. The plan was to go five
days “drug-free” and then fill the prescription for a different anti-depressant
which might have fewer side effects.
So last weekend
I’d been drug free for five days and this is what I noticed…
I got goosebumps
over everything. I cried at the drop of a hat (good tears; the “my heart is moved”
kind).
Goosebumps at a
BBQ, goosebumps and tears at church. Goosebumps and tears watching a doco about
the All Blacks, for goodness' sake!
I am FEELING
things. Good things. Goosies and gratitude and empathy and love and joy.
It has been so
long since I FELT these types of emotions so raw and real, I started to wonder
if it was because I was drug free. If those antidepressants which were meant to
help me cope with life were actually numbing me. Stealing my joy. Robbing me of
LIFE.
I haven’t filled
the prescription.
It’s still sitting
on my nightstand.
[a painting "Lost in the Woods", by Me]
I am waiting to
see if having the good feelings back is worth living with the negative ones.
Because with the
good, comes the bad.
Panic, short
temper, self-loathing.
Feeling so
overwhelmed and helpless at the sight of dishes and laundry that I cry. Feeling
so much auditory pain at the sound of my children’s chatter that I have to take
my dinner on a tray into my room and eat by myself. Feeling so much guilt at
the way I have no energy for my children...
So this is the
choice before me:
(a) Take the
drugs, reduce the bad, live life NUMB.
(b) Don’t take the
drugs, feel alive, find better ways to manage the bad.
For now, I’m going
with (b). I have to see if I can do this. Because I am so tired of living numb.
This past week as I have felt stuff again, and I realised I'd forgotten what I’ve been missing. My
husband deserves a wife who can feel, ya know? My kids deserve a mother who can actually get excited about stuff. And I deserve to experience life in all it’s colours.
With the drugs,
there may be no black, but everything is murky beige. There’s no rainbow.
My hubby said to
me last night: Going drug-free is like freefalling.
He’s right; that
description sums up this sensation. I’ve jumped and now I feel like I am
tumbling through nothingness and headed for an almighty collision.
But.
He reminded me I
am not alone. I am doing this jump tandem. Strapped to Someone who has the
parachute.
Last week I heard
the best sermon of my life. It truly rocked my world.
The speaker was
Shane Willard and I have found his message* on YouTube for you... (* Based on the title I am pretty sure this is the same message we heard last Sunday. However I can't be sure because for some reason the sound is not working on my computer. VERY annoying.)
I wanted to share
this with everyone I know; it was so profound, so powerful, so freeing.
The way he
describes God, and Jesus, well. Blows my mind. Fills my heart.
This is who I am
strapped to. The Person who “if all the things that he did were written down,
the world would not be enough to contain all the books that would be written.”
It’s Sunday. You
might not be in church (hey, I’m not either. I’m here in my quiet house. Church
would have been too much for me today). You might not be a church person; you
might not even know if you believe that God exists.
Would you consider
giving this message a shot?
Watch. Listen.
This is the God that I am putting my trust in.
This is the Light
I see ahead of me giving me hope. This is my Parachute.
Call me Crazy (you
wouldn’t be the first) but I am putting my very existence into the hands of
this Person.
Dear readers, if
you are lost in the woods, I hope this little Sunday Morning rant has connected
with you in some way. I’m on the path. Not out of the woods yet. But one day I
will be. I BELIEVE.
Love and hugs
My Depression Page (with stories from the journey and things that help me)
P.S. *The Drug I've been withdrawing from was Effexor.
I never knew going Cold Turkey could be so... horrid.
I never meant to do it. It happened quite by accident, initially.
See, I've been doing pretty well lately, on the "mental health and wellbeing" front.
The Black Dog had been beaten into submission with the help of my lovely counsellor and lot a hard work. Medication had been slowly reduced until just one last pill remained.
It had been discussed that perhaps in the New Year I might try coming off them altogether. For the first time in many years that was no longer a scary thought but something that seemed possible.
So when in the middle of all the camping excitement I forgot to take my meds a couple of days in a row - and I felt OK - you can maybe understand why I did what I did.
Of course I wasn't thinking straight. Camping by the beach will do that to ya. Sea breezes and all that lazing around.
So I decided to just... not take any more. See what happens.
Silly me. Silly silly me.
Effexor is a nasty drug to withdraw from. I knew that. I'd heard it before, read it online, knew of friends who suffered through it. All of this flew from my head along with the seratonin.
Blissfully unaware of the hell that would soon be unleashed in my body, we packed up our tent and came home. Home to the piles of washing. Home to science experiments in our vegie bin. Home to stacks of junk mail and not a sea breeze in sight to stir the muggy sticky air.
By afternoon I was feeling pretty rotten, but hadn't put two-and-two together yet.
The nausea started, the vomiting.
By morning I was tearful and paranoid, thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts.
I curled up on my messy bed with the fan on full blast and let the family go off to church without me.
The itching started. I wanted to claw my skin off.
Any noise, any minor request or dropped spoon would send me off the deep end, sobbing and muttering bad words under my breath.
By this stage I'd figured out it was the drugs doing this to me.
But in my befuddled state I didn't know if this was drug withdrawal or simply what I'm like without them.
(A basket case.)
Finally somebody with half a brain had the great idea that I should call my counsellor and get some advice.
"Go to your doctor. URGENTLY," she told me.
Off I went, with all three kids in tow, hoping I wouldn't crash into somebody, crying all the way.
My doctor shook her head at my silliness.
"It's a very strong drug," she said. "You can't just go cold turkey. It needs to be done over a long period of time... properly..."
Yeah. I kind of learnt that one the hard way.
Things are looking up, you'll be glad to know. I'm not 100% yet but at least I've stopped crying all the time and trying to scratch my skin off. And it's now been a few hours since I screamed at anyone too (much to my kids' relief).
I have a prescription for half-strength Effexor that I'll be on for the next month. And when it's time to drop that down, I'll be doing it under the guidance of my Doctor.
No more Cold Turkey for me ever again, trust me.
Never do I want a repeat of the last few days.
It was a glimpse into the pit of despair that I used to fall into far too often.
But, man, I will glad to see the back of this drug. I want it out of my system, out of my life.
This year I want to get healthier, fitter, lose weight, be happier.
This was just a bump in the road.
When I knocked over the cup of un-drunk milk it was the last straw.
I had been calm. I had held it together. I had stuck to my guns in the face of tantrums and meltdowns.
But that cup of milk made me want to cry.
I wanted to run to my room, throw myself on my bed and cry for my mummy.
But I didn't.
I said just one bad word. Then I grabbed the handi-towels and mopped up the puddle.
Minutes later when Scrag knocked another drink over on the very same spot... well I did let out a yelp, but I still didn't run for my room.
It's been that kind of week. One where I have needed to be strong. To stick to my guns. To make tough choices, to face the worst. To get up every day and do the necessary things even when life as we know it felt like it was tumbling about my ears.
I am still here.
I am still standing.
I have not run for the hills.
I met a dear friend at the kindy gate this morning and she remarked on how far I've come.
She reckons she can see how much stronger I am these days. I was hugely encouraged by her words.
I know she's right, I feel it. I know I am stronger on the inside.
Of course when the pressure builds and I am pushed and pushed, I feel The Swing wanting to start.
I feel the old me wanting to crumble and cave.
I am still standing, in spite of this week.
Some things I simply cannot and will not share here on this blog. Maybe one day when we are through on the other side, but not now.
Suffice it to say that life really is like a rollercoaster, and sometimes it's more of the screaming and shutting your eyes to escape the fear than the laughing and having fun.
So here I am stealing a few moments while the urchins rampage and I take a few breaths before plunging into the bedtime routine.
Holding out for 7.30 here, people
Then just maybe, this endless exhausting day will finally end.
This post was one of the first to ever appear on my blog. I went from party planning to depression in one inspired leap, as I felt compelled to share with my readers the reality of what I battle with. I have always wanted this blog to be a place of encouragement and hope through sharing honestly about my Life's Rollercoaster. I've updated the post over the years since I first wrote it, and now here it is again for you: My Journey through Depression . . .
I turned forty a couple of years ago. What a landmark; a milestone. I made it this far alive and still kicking, in spite of some pretty rough water the past few years.
Rough water caused by the storm of Depression. Black clouds and thunderheads have threatened to capsize my fragile little boat. But I’m still here. By hook or by crook, with the support and love of my husband, the grace and mercy of The Big Guy upstairs, and some incredible wisdom from some amazing people… here I am firmly planted on planet Earth, telling my story to you.
It's no mystery how I got myself into such a mess. I'm one of those people who tends to be very hard on themselves, very driven, all-or-nothing. As a kid I was a perfectionist, a bit of a loner, shy, arty, sensitive; I loved books and escaping reality. My dad became a pastor when I was ten and burnt out when I was 17. Our family moved around a lot; I went to ten different schools. Starting over again and again got harder as I got older. I became something of a nerd.
The state of the world always bothered me so I spent my twenties trying to change it by getting involved in youth work. There were leaders around me who warned me to be careful and take care of myself... but did I listen? Of course not. There was a world to put to rights by next week and if I didn't do it, who would? (Perhaps subconsciously I also thought I could finish what my dad had started.)
[Me and my dad 1994; Graduation from Bible College]
As a single girl, there was nothing outside myself to force me to slow down. No boyfriend or husband or kids with any claim on my time or energy. I slept, ate and breathed youth work. At one point I was even ordained as a minister.
At the age of 27 I started up an education programme through our church (Equippers Auckland) for at-risk kids who had dropped out of mainstream school.
[CLS girls up Mt Eden; February 1999]
Watching the movie Once were Warriorsmoved and inspired me. It’s a tale of family breakdown, violence, sexual abuse and teen suicide all filmed in my hometown. After seeing it, I spent all night crying over these kids who were so broken and lost. I prayed, "God I know I'm just a middle class white girl with no qualifications, but if you can use me to help these kids then show me how."
Within a couple of years a whole bunch of "Once Were Warriors" kids had started coming to our church youth group, which I was leading. A series of conversations led to a decision to "use what we had" and start something for the ones who simply would not go to school.
The programme, Creative Learning Scheme(CLS), is still going strong and is now the largest "alternative education programme in NZ.
But it was heavy stuff. After three years I was totally depleted. I'd tried to carry the weight of these kids' extreme problems myself - broken families sexual abuse, violence, drugs, crime - a huge shock to a sensitive soul like me.
It was around about this time I met and fell head over heels with the guy who is now my husband.
I finished working at CLS, we got married and I thought, "Hey I can relax now, my dreams have finally come true; my prince has come and my troubles are over..."
All hell broke loose. My new husband wondered what had hit him - who is this screaming maniac he had married? He had no idea this nice Christian girl knew the kind of words that sometimes spewed out of my mouth.
Meanwhile I thought I was literally losing my mind. I didn't want to pray, couldn't face reading my Bible, cried every time I went to church. I was having panic attacks, I couldn't face crowds, busy streets, or noise. I couldn't make decisions or handle any kind of stress - my thoughts would get into a traffic jam. My anger would just errupt without warning, and then other times I would feel like I was falling down a deep dark hole, where I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.
I had no enthusiasm for life, it felt like a heavy burden to me. I couldn't face the thought of having to go on living for the next fifty years - my husband was planning a long future together and I was just wishing the world would end.
The thing that perplexed me was that finally my life was what I had dreamed of. I had this great guy, a new house, I got to travel, had a great new job and a new baby coming. There was no external trouble but I was in hell.
[Art Therapy: "Burdens"]
Finally my husband had enough and marched me off to a counsellor when I was six months pregnant with our first baby. He poured out his concerns about me to this very wise old guy, Brian McStay, who looked at me and said those words, "I think you are clinically depressed."
I hadn't been very good to myself, physically or emotionally. I was running on empty and was terribly unhealthy. Looking back over my journals from my twenties I see a recurring theme - I would go 100km an hour, without putting anything "in" to my emotional tank. I would drag myself to the end of each year by sheer willpower, feeling like I just couldn't face another year. Then after a few weeks holiday I would feel so much better and dive back into it again, only to repeat the pattern. I don't know how I lasted as long as I did.
At least now I had a name for this black cloud.
Brian explained that what I was experiencing was like what happens to soldiers in battle - while they’re in the thick of it, they have to hold it together. But when the pressure comes off, everything crashes down on them and they freak out.
Just like those soldiers, I was coping until the pressure came off.
"Then," Brian said, "Those parts of yourself you have neglected start screaming for attention."
I’m still here ten years later. Still walking the road. Making progress slowly, surely.
I have now found an amazing counsellor and we are really starting to make progress. I now understand myself so much better, and have identified the reasons I ended up in such a state.
It's the Pendulum. I swing from taking on the world and pushing myself beyond my limits to collapsing in a heap, depleted and dependant, anxious and overwhelmed. Sometimes I swing in a day. Other times it can build up for weeks before I "swing".
So I walk with a limp, depression and anxiety are a weakness, a vulnerability I have.
I’ve learned to be kinder to myself. To recognize the warning signs. Not take on too much.
[Art Therapy: Refuge in the Desert]
One of the things that has really helped me is Art Therapy and Visual Journalling, being a bit of an arty, creative individual. For me, Art Therapy was like learning to speak my mother tongue; it helped me connect back to God again in a new and non-striving way. Getting out in the garden, going for a walk, sipping coffee in the sunshine… these things all help soothe me on the days I feel a bit crazy.
A DVD by Dr Grant Mullen also helped tremendously, especially in explaining things so my hubby could understand them. Dr Mullen explains that Depression is the only physical illness with spiritual symptoms, which confuses many people and adds a heap of guilt to the torment Christians with depression are already facing ("lousy Christian", "not enough faith" etc).
He says that since Depression affects all threeareas of our lives:
body (biochemical)
soul (mind, will and emotions)
spirit (the part that connects with God)
Unless we sort out the biochemicalproblem, how can we be expected get our thoughts and emotions into order?
When I was first diagnosed, I started out trying to manage the depression without taking medication but as more babies joined our family, I found that the anti-depressants were necessary. There’s no shame in that. Medication works on your brain like putting a cast on a broken leg. They provide support to hold your thoughts in order so healing can follow. Nobody would ever judge someone for having a cast on their leg, would they?
[Art Therapy: Sorrow for My Family]
I share quite openly about my journey through depression here on my blog. It’s not the focus, but I’ve always felt it was crucial to be honest about my struggles.
Quite often I get through each day by the skin of my teeth, but I'm doing my best and I am finally starting to see light at the end of the tunnel.
My amazing counsellor, Jane, says that as I "find my voice" and discover who I really am and begin to live authentically out of that (rather than trying to please others an conform to external expectations) the Pendulum will stop swinging. I won't even need the meds any more.
That day is coming closer. I've already been able to reduce my dose from 225mg of Effexor per day to 75mg - something of a miracle.
[Art Therapy: The Forest of Unforgiveness]
A Little Rant about Depression
Depression is still misunderstood by many and those who suffer with it often have to endure well-meaning advice from those who have never been there - or worse, rejection and judgement.
Depression is not something we can just snap out of. Oh how I wish it were! It’s a debilitating illness that manifests itself with spiritual and emotional symptoms. There is no quick fix.
What we need from those around us is Love. Your love, support, kindness and acceptance do more than any medicine. We need your Faith in us as worthwhile people, and to borrow your Hope that we will come through the storms when they blow up. As they will.
With your support we will come through, and afterwards the grit of pain and difficulty will have been turned into a Pearl of Wisdom. Something precious to offer the world.
If any of this has struck a chord with you, I would love to hear from you. You can email me on greatfun4kids@live.com. I have already heard from many of you who have emailed me after reading my journey. I count it a privilege to be able to share with you. You'd be surprised at how many wonderful women battle this Black Cloud. You are not alone.
[Art Therapy: Breaking Storm]
Need Help...?
If you are reading this and wondering if you may have depression, visit one of these websites and do the self test:
Don't suffer alone. Speak to your doctor. Find a wise counselor or psycho-therapist (ask around for recommendations). Share with a close friend. Ask for support from your spouse and ask them to come with you for a few sessions with the counselor so they get the same understanding you do. Believe me it will make the world of difference.
[my garden, Scrag's laughter, creativity, opportunities to write, sunshine...]
When the Pendulum swings it helps to be grateful. When the kids are off their heads and you wonder why you brought them into the world just to torture you, it helps to be grateful. When the house is a mess, and your head aches and you feel as if the ground you've gained is slipping away beneath your feet... gratitude is tonic for the soul.
Last night my wise husband prescribed me a grateful list for my soul-ailings.
He sat with pen in hand and requested a list of no less than twentyfive things I am grateful for.
Then he stuck it on my mirror and said, "Read it every time you look in the mirror. In the morning when you wake up, say it out loud..."
[my beautiful home, books to read...]
Here is that list...
Jane (my counsellor)
My Home (my beautiful house)
Our Big Garden
Living in Mt Albert
Books to Read
Sunshine
Legs and arms that work
Eyes that can see
Music (and ears to hear it)
Scrag's laughter
My Smile (my best feature)
Healthy children
Funny children
Kisses and cuddles
More than enough
Opportunity to travel
Being able to drive
Being born in New Zealand
Time to Myself
A Generous husband
Creativity
Friends
Opportunities to Write
Grey hair (Wisdom)
A car
Being a Mother
Being a Wife
[being born in New Zealand, being a mother, being a wife, my generous husband...]
All of the above, the big and the small, gives me a warm glow when I stop to think about it.
So I feel lonely sometimes and my friends are busy people, but I still have them.
I even have friends I've never met; sweet women who take the time to send me words of encouragement, beautiful handmade cards and words of appreciation (thankyou HollyMayB).
I have hours every week that I get to spend doing the things I love. I don't always spend my time wisely... I spend too many of those hours here on the computer, but I still get to choose. I get to have time - something which was once so rare.
[Friends]
I spent years alone, praying and dreaming of Mr Right. Wondering if I'd ever get to be a wife and mother. Now I am - with all the mess and mayhem that goes with it. But still - I wanted this life.
I live in the most beautiful country in the world. We are free to live and learn and believe and dream here. I live in the best suburb in Auckland. Not the flashest, but the best. Our community really is a community. So many women I love who are my friends and neighbours. Precious people I get to do life with. How blessed am I?
[living in Mt Albert, sunshine, funny kids, my smile...]
I may not be all that happy with my appearance right now, my figure may be heading south and the toll of years is starting to show... but I can walk, hear, see. My smile makes the difference between frumpy and glowing. That is my choice. Underneath the L'Oreal Chocolate Brown, grey hair is starting to take over. But each one of those silvery strands has come with experience of life. Maturity is hard won, and silver is the price we pay. And I'm worth it.
I get to pursue my dreams. Travelling. Writing.
And indulge in my favourite activities. Reading, creativity.
I am not house-bound. I have a car, I can drive.
See what I learn about the good things in my life when I take the time to really look?
Guess what?
I don't need you to fix my problems - I just need to know you care.
When I'm struggling, I don't expect you to have the answers - all I need is to know that you give a damn.
These are some of the revelatory thoughts that have been swimming around my brain lately.
The nice thing I've realised about this, is that the same is probably true for you.
If you're struggling, you don't need me to have the answers either - you just need to know that I give a damn.
This is very freeing for me.
Because sometimes when I notice friends struggling, or hear of someone going through pain, I feel powerless, frozen into immobility by the hugeness of their grief or loss.
What should I say? What if I say the wrong thing?
I've never lost a child/parent/partner, been divorced or had a miscarriage so how can I relate?
Worrying over doing or saying the wrong thing in the face of someone's infinite pain can be extremely paralyzing.
I want to help, but how?
Now I know.
I don't need the answers (there probably aren't any this side of Heaven)...
I don't need the right words (nothing anyone says could take the pain away)...
I don't even need to have gone through the same thing (I've had my own pain so I can draw on that)...
I just need to let them know that I care.
I DO give a damn.
Now, how can I show it?
I can only go by what works for me.
It's the little things, simply being remembered and thought of can be such a powerful thing.
We know life goes on for those around us.
We are stuck, washed into the swamps of grief, not moving forward, while our friends are swept along in the tide of busyness and endless doing as we once were, before pain sidelined us.
So when a friend, busy as they are, takes time to remember us... it means so much.
Things that loving friends have done for me at times when I've been struggling include...
a card in the post
goodies in my mailbox
an invitation to coffee
dropping by to just say hi
dropping by to do my housework
a phone call to say "how ya doin?"
a meal dropped off
a heartfelt encouraging email
a txt that just says "thinking of you"
Practical things, each one like a big warm hug that tells me "YOU MATTER".
Taking inspiration from this, I can let these be some of the ways I can show others that I give a damn.
That although life does sweep inexorably on, it does not go on without them for me.
I've written this as a challenge to myself. Anyone else who wants to take up the challenge, please feel free.
Remember what Jesus said:
"By this shall people know you are my followers: that you have LOVE for each other."
Not great music, not awesome preachers, not exciting outreach programmes or a happening youth group. These mean next-to-nothing. The only thing that matters is
LOVE.
LOVE.
LOVE.
Showing people that they matter. They are not forgotten, alone or abandoned in their time of difficulty.
And we DO give a damn.
................ P.S. For those new to my blog, my own personal journey through pain has been a long battle with depression and anxiety, as a result of burn-out doing youth work. This year I have turned a corner, found an amazing counselor and I'm starting to finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Of course this is not without its moments. The past two days have been a blast from the past which is why I've been thinking along these lines. I am also hugely inspired by SophieSlim's Love Bombs as one way of showing those who are struggling that they are not forgotten.
